


Shoe Soles

by ifyoubreakmyheartillbreakyourlegs1



Category: The Smiths
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-10-03
Packaged: 2018-11-17 12:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11275428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifyoubreakmyheartillbreakyourlegs1/pseuds/ifyoubreakmyheartillbreakyourlegs1
Summary: A chance encounter at a bus stop on a rainy afternoon, Johnny is a pretty guitarist and Steven is sad. Manchester is Manchester is Manchester... Pre Smiths AU





	1. The Rain Falls Hard

He had been walking for the past hour, with no goal but to ease his mind and move his stiff limbs after lying in bed all day, when in typically cynical, Mancunian fashion the indifferently grey sky had turned into the demonic bearer of a brutal downpour, flattening the already claustrophobic brick buildings into faceless concrete walls.

Steven, in the middle of it all, stood frozen on the road, unable to decide whether to yawn at another one of fates (many) games or to cry out in agony.

He was certain, however, of two things:

1) His quiff, once sky-high and proud, was now pressed in strands against his forehead.

2) The copy of „A Room Of One's Own“ in the left backpocket of his trousers, kept his behind relatively dry, and in turn, turned a wet mess of paper and ink awfully quick.  
Both observations were reason enough to seek shelter, he concluded. So, with the stamina that was left from once running track (and fleeing responsibilities), he ran in the general direction of what looked like a bus stop sign, about four hundred feet down the road, his soles slipping over the slick ground, his glasses all fogged and his coat soaked. My life is the single most disturbingly tedious tragedy, he thought, as he tried to keep his balance and barely escaped death by breaking his neck on the kerbstone.

Finally, after the most adventurous sixty seconds of the past few weeks (or months, years...DECADES?!), Steven skidded to a halt underneath the limp little canopy of clubbed wood that some may call a 'bus stop' and sat. As the pitter-patter continued incessantly, Steven knew with an unwavering certainty that THAT would not change for the next few hours. He got as comfortable as was possible, given the circumstances.

And sighed.

After a moment or so, he pulled the wet heap of paper that was once a feminist essay out of his pocket. Unreadable. The single letters were now indistinguishable black spots of smudged ink.

'... dead poet who was Shakespeare’s sister', Steven mumbled, reading out the one sentence that was somehow, magically left unaffected.

With another worryingly deep sigh, every bit of tension left his body and he slumped into a teary-eyed, runny-nosed, wet heap of rags and gaunt limbs. Absentmindedly, his fingers traced the numerous names carved into the wood of the bench he sat upon. He was trying to guess each letter without looking by grazing every indent carefully, when suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the yellowish glow of approaching headlights. 'The bus!', he thought, stood abruptly and began to swing his arms frantically in what must have looked like a slightly deranged wave.

A grumbling beast of a double decker bus came to a shuddering halt in front of him and with a wheeze its doors opened. Nothing but a few steps and a gruff looking bus driver separated Steven and a comfortable looking (dry) window seat. He was about to enter, when a mumbled 'Oi' cut his bliss short. 'You got a ticket?' Steven stood frozen, blushed and started to make a show of searching through his pockets. 'I've got… 10, 30, 35, err…, 37, 57 pence here. Is that, well, enough to get anywhere near Kings Road, Stretford? And away from the rain?' The bus driver frowned, eyed him suspiciously. 'Lad, we both know the answer to that question. And it ain't yes.' Steven groaned, stuffed the change back into his pockets 'Please, would you just make one exception-' 'Weather's not getting any better, if anything, it's getting worse. You better get going, kid. Soon.' The driver nudged his chin in Steven's direction, prompting him to take a small step back as the doors shut close again. Away drives the one hope of getting home without catching pneumonia, Steven thought.

Frustrated, he drove his hands through his damp hair. What was he supposed to do? Checking his watch, he realised it was already half past five, meaning the sun was going to set in approximately an hour. Walking the whole way home was an unattractive prospect, and so was waiting for the rain to stop.

The next option he could think of caused him to shudder involuntarily. Hitching a ride… well, that could end badly, (beg your pardon, would). Very badly, as grizzly images of children taken too early, too cruelly, flit through his mind. A fitting end it would be. suffocating in Manchester as he had been the past couple of years and dying on the Moors… 'Bespectacled Freak Not Wandering About Southern Cemetary for Once: Has He Finally Joined the Dead?', the Evening Standard, in all of its laughable boulevard glory would clamour. Or not. He was, after all, quite easily forgotten. 'How come the rain hasn't washed me away, yet?', he wondered and stretched his neck up at the ungiving wall of black clouds above. His cynicism equipped him with an odd sort of bravery, and when he heard an engine's low rumble drawing near, he stretched out his left thumb, almost as if to dare life to screw him over.

'Dunno if hitching a ride's such a good idea, mate.', a soft voice commented from somewhere behind him.  
All of his former bravery melted into thin air, leaving him quite deflated. He didn't dare turn around, however, and some sort of defiant streak made him keep his thumb firmly in place.  
The car drove past him without as much as slowing down, muddy rain water splashing against the legs of his trousers and drenching his shoes.

Steven lowered his thumb. He knew when to admit defeat. He swallowed down the lump of humiliation that was beginning to form in his throat. Still not daring to turn around to face the stranger's ridicule that was undoubtedly to come, he simply began to walk in the direction he hoped home was.  
'Oi! Wait!' Steven quickened his pace, hugging himself tightly. The sound of shoe soles slapping against wet concrete followed him soon after. 'Hey, slow down!'

Steven turned around, annoyed. 'I am sure that there are more interesting things to do than to gloat.', he said, as he faced a boy, about a head shorter than himself.  
'Listen, just meant to say that walking's a real bad idea, and hitching a ride's dangerous, didn't mean to upset you.' Steven frowned. 'I'm not upset.' The boy grinned. 'Cool. Let's get out of the rain, then.' Steven's frown deepened, and after a moment's hesitation he decided to follow the boy, albeit slowly. He further examined the boys outfit; his eyes were hidden by a pair of black Rayban Wayfarers; he was clad in an equally black leather jacket with its collar turned up against the rain and a pair of light blue denim jeans.

All in all, the young folk would call him 'rather hip'.

Steven agreed with the young folk.

'Name's Johnny, Johnny Marr, by the way.', the boy called Johnny said, a ne'er-do-well grin still plastered on his face. Once they were save from the rain, Johnny lit a cigarette, offering one to Steven with a questioning rise of his eyebrows. 'I don't smoke.' Johnny nodded slowly, an unreadable expression on his face. He took a long drag from his cigarette and puffed out a wisp of smoke through his nose. The smell of Johnny's spicy cologne, fresh rain upon Mancunian roads and the scent of smoke made for a heady mixture, Steven fathomed. 'Fair 'nuff. So, what's your name?' Startled, his attention snapped back to Johnny. 'Steven.', he said and added, after a moment of consideration, 'Morrissey.' Apparently, that was quite amusing, as Johnny's cool expression once again broke into that ridiculous grin of his, that was infuriating and admittedly quite charming in equal measures.

Both were silent for a longer stretch of time; only the plinking rain, splattering on the roof of the bus stop and the occasional whooshing sound of passing vehicles breaking the quiet.

'So. You into the New York Dolls, huh?', Johnny stated, pointing at the badges that adorned Steven's coat collar.

'Yeeeeees. Do you like them?'

Johnny nodded. 'Yeah. 'Chatterbox' is a personal favourite. Right now, I'm more into 60's girl groups, though.'

Steven's brows shot up in surprise. Johnny huffed out a short laugh. 'Yeah, Motown and all that. The Shangri-Las are my favourite group at the moment.' He let go of the remaining cigarette stub and ground it out.

'What about you, then?'

'What about me, then?'

'What sort of music are you into, other than the Dolls?'

Barely concealed excitement lit up Steven's face at the query, quickly replaced by a pensive look.

'Well, obviously, the New York punk scene has produced quite a bit of excellent music, but I grow particularly weak when it comes to Patti Smith, the Ramones, Lou Reed, Iggy, Nico, well, the usual suspects, really. Sparks, of course -'Kimono My House' is utterly genius- there isn't a single track on that record that isn't brilliant. Jobriath, and I refuse to go into any detail as to why I love them, that should be perfectly obvious. Oh, of course, The Cramps, wonderfully energetic-they've got an extraordinary drummer. Roxy Music, Marc Bolan -both T.Rex and Tyrannosaurus Rex- and, well, the list could go on for quite a while. I like The Shangri-Las, too. The Marvelettes, also. Et cetera, et cetera.', he concluded with a snicker, a bit out of breath, his cheeks flushed. Johnny took his time to light another cigarette, and just as Steven was growing anxious with each second passed in expectant silence, Johnny stated 'You've got a funny voice.'

Steven just stared at him.

  
'I mean you sound all posh. All “ _eloquent_ ”', he declared, mouthing the term in an exaggerated impression of Steven's own voice. Steven's mouth opened and shut a few times. 'I certainly do _not_ sound anything like that. And I am surprised you even _know_ what eloquent means. _And_ just because I don't communicate via drawn out grunts that doesn't make me _posh_.'

Johnny had the nerve to simply grin at that. 'Whatever helps you sleep at night, Stevie.', causing the addressed to groan. 'Would you please never, ever call me that again?'

'Stevie? Why, sounds kinda cute, don't you think? Takes the edge off of you. Makes you more relatable, y'know.' Steven shifted 'Well, I didn't ask for anyone to relate to me and I am quite happy with 'that edge', thank you.'  
Johnny was still grinning cheekily at him, the bastard. Steven avoided his gaze, choosing to look down the road, for… well, what actually? A truck to run him over, maybe. Or perhaps he could kidnap a car, yes, certainly, with his tall and intimidatingly muscular frame, or perhaps he could charm his way into a stranger's car, by citing Oscar Wilde, or his favourite Coronation Street lines. He sniggered at the thought. Him, running around the streets shouting about-'You've got a great taste in music.'

He stilled.

'Sorry, what?'

'I said you've got a great taste in music. I like all the groups you mentioned.'

This was, what, the third, fourth time in a row that Johnny had managed to stun him into silence.

'Well, _obviously_ I've got a great taste in music.' Steven cleared his throat. 'But… thank you.' Johnny simply gave him a thumbs-up in response, before he continued to take off his sun glasses to clean them with the hem of his shirt. For some silly, unfathomable, baffling reason, Steven was slightly transfixed by the sight in front of him. Johnny was… pretty. His light brown eyes had a dreamy quality to them, further emphasised by the black eyeliner and mascara he wore. When those very eyes gazed up at him with one eyebrow raised questioningly, Steven couldn't help turning a slight shade of pink. Luckily, Johnny didn't point it out.'So, what're you doing here?' Steven shrugged. 'I was just strolling about. Then, it started to rain, so I ran here to catch the bus to Stretford-'

'Wait, Stretford? Isn't that, like, an hour's walk away?', Johnny asked, still rubbing his shades. Steven's eyes followed the movement. 'Yes.'  
Johnny hummed, lost in thoughts. Steven coughed. 'Well, why are _you_ here?'

Johnny raised his glasses against what little sunlight there was left and inspected them with an expression of utter concentration on his face, his cigarette still dangling from the corner of his mouth.  
Very pretty, indeed.

'Band practice, the boys are coming to pick me up. Should be here, already, actually.' Apparently happy with the result, he put his glasses back on. Steven couldn't help feeling a light pang of disappointment, before he registered what had had just been said.

'Band practice? You play in a band?' Johnny nodded, a proud smile on his face.

'Yeah. We call ourselves 'White Dice' ', and as an afterthought, he added, pointing at the guitar case leaning against the wooden bench: 'I play the guitar- oh, here they come.' Steven turned his head to see a small, battered down Volkswagen approaching, the windscreen wipers working furiously. Johnny grabbed his case and smiled sincerely at Steven. 'Was real nice meeting you, Steven.'

Steven was a bit at a loss, helplessly, he replied 'You too, I suppose. Have… fun at band practice.' He got a distracted 'thanks' in return, as Johnny hurried to stow away his guitar in the car's boot. The passenger door was opened from the inside 'Hurry the fuck up, Marr, don't want my bloody seat to get wet!', a voice yelled from the driver's seat. Johnny jumped in, and the car promptly drove off without the passenger door even properly shut, yet.

  
Steven's gaze followed the vehicle until it took a sharp turn and disappeared.

 

His brows knitted together in confusion, as he tried -and failed- to grasp what had just happened. The other human's sudden absence had left him with a funny shaped, uncomfortable hole. He gazed down at the cigarette stub on the ground next to him. A tiny, burnt down stick of tobacco and cellulose being the only tangible prove for the encounter. With a sudden, shuddering intake of breath he realised that he felt very, very sad and very, very lonely.

He turned up his coat collar and began to walk in the direction he hoped home was.

The sound of shoe soles slapping against wet concrete did not follow him soon after.

 

Oh well, he'd gotten used to it.

 


	2. Ardwick Green

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'STRAIGHT MUSIC PRESENTS: PATTI SMITH GROUP WITH GUESTS - APOLLO THEATRE, HYDE RD, ARDWICK GREEN, MANCHESTER – THURSDAY, 30th OCTOBER at 7.30 PM'

Two weeks after the encounter, Steven was careful to avoid rain. Whenever he thought the sky was a shade too dark or the air a bit too heavy with humidity -for Mancunian standards, that is-, he would decidedly not go out. Instead, he would pick out a particularly loud and particularly aggressive punk record and listen to it at the highest possible volume. He would sit in his small bed room right next to his speakers and watch the single drops of water as they smacked against his window and left behind silvery trails, and observe as two crossed paths and merged into one. A blissful state of nihilistic nothingness, no room for thoughts or feelings, just sound, sound, sound and words, words, words.

But eventually, a sharp knock on his door or a bang against his wall would chastise him to lower the volume. And once that happened, the 'what if's', questions, possibilities and probabilities, maybes and perhapses returned at once.

Steven was deeply ashamed by his own inability to forget Johnny.

But that was the nature of loneliness and longing. It was, at its core, mocking.

Since that fateful conversation (nothing but a polite chat cut short, Steven would try to remind himself in vain), a constant ache had accompanied him. Johnny Marr's hair – a smack on the head, Johnny Marr's smile – a punch to the gut, Johnny Marr's eyes: an elbow in the face. His desperation unsettled him deeply. Thus far, these sorts of feelings had been reserved for his heroes, long dead and gone or otherwise unapproachable. This, however, was an entirely different story. Steven was strangely attracted to someone, God help him, made of flesh and blood, who he might actually see again. A possibility that both scared him endlessly and, admittedly, excited him.

Such was his state of mind when Thursday afternoon his mother entered his room.

'Steven?'

At the mention of his name, he looked up with a blank expression, expecting another reprimand or a reminder to do his chores. Instead, his mother made her way to the middle of his room, quietly taking everything in for a few moments. She frowned thoughtfully at the untouched heap of books on his bedside table and the dirty laundry on the floor. 'Have you eaten anything today, darling?' When Steven shook his head in reply, her frown only deepened.

'You didn't read any of the books I brought you from the library?' she continued to ask, picking up an early 20th century edition of “The Poems and Essays of Oscar Wilde”.

Another shake of his head. After a moment of quiet consideration, Betty made her way to his record player and lifted up the needle, prompting an indignant shout of protest from her son.

'Shush.' With that, she sat down next to Steven, causing him to shift. She looked at him in earnest.

'Steven, I don't have any idea why you would lock yourself up like this for days. But you have to realise that I am happy to listen to anything that might bother you, love.'

At this, Steven snorted humourlessly, fiddling around with a loose thread hanging from the sleeve of his jumper.

Betty exhaled audibly. 'You're making this unnecessarily difficult for both of us, you do realise that?'

Steven only shrugged, continuing to ignore his mother's attempt at communication. He wasn't in the mood for explaining himself. And while he was aware that he was childishly taking his mood out on her, Steven couldn't find it in himself to care particularly much.

Betty sighed, stood, and looked down at him with an expression of utter exhaustion and light irritation.  
'I am sure whatever it is that is going on behind that thick skull of yours is very important. But-'

'Oh, it is. Currently pondering the best way to set fire to that heap of dirty laundry. Do you have a light?', he drawled.

'Oh, spare me, Steven.' Exasperated, she made her way to the door, only to suddenly stop dead in her tracks.

'Don't forget about the Patti Smith gig tonight.'

When Steven gasped in shock, Betty sighed, again, her motherly patience drawn out, and left his room. As soon as the door shut close, Steven jumped up abruptly, stumbled, crawled, hopped to his desk and dug through the contents of his drawers. 'It has to be somewhere in here', he mumbled, digging through unfinished scripts, poems, “novels” and letters. Underneath layers and layers of written words, sometimes in ink, sometimes typed and, less frequently, scratched with graphite, he found a tiny, rectangular slip of paper, announcing in loud, bold letters

'STRAIGHT MUSIC PRESENTS: PATTI SMITH GROUP WITH GUESTS - APOLLO THEATRE, HYDE RD, ARDWICK GREEN, MANCHESTER – THURSDAY, 30th OCTOBER at 7.30 PM'

Next to it lay an inconspicuous little cigarette stub. At its sight, Steven quickly grabbed the ticket and slammed the drawer shut again.

Clutching the ticket, he paced the length of his room and glanced at his watch. Almost 7 PM. In a rush, he grabbed the clothes that were best fitting and the least creased and made a run for the bathroom, only to find that the door was locked. Groaning, he slapped his hand against the door.

'Steven, push off!', his sister hissed.

'Jackie, whatever it is that you're doing in there, stop doing it and do it somewhere else.'

'That's what I always tell you and you're still here!'

'This is a matter of absolute urgency. I am sure you can observe the growth of your pimples any other day-' at that, Jackie ripped the door open and glared at him.

' _What_ do you want?'

'Isn't it perfectly obvious? I need to shower.'

'That you definitely do.' she quipped dryly.

Steven rolled his eyes at her antics. 'Stop being so difficult. I need to leave for the Patti Smith concert in a few minutes-'

' _You're_ going to the gig?'

'Well, actually, no.'

'Thank God.'

' _Of course_ I'm going to the Patti Smith gig.'

'God, no, you _cannot_ go. _I'm_ going.' Jackie pressed.

'Jackie, I don't see how the two are mutually exclusive concepts.'

'Of course you don't. God, you're so difficult.'

'Thank you, I _do_ try.' he declared somewhat proudly.

Agitated, Jackie stormed out of the bathroom, bumping into his shoulder. 'Mum! Tell Steven he cannot go!'

Steven used the opportunity to slip into the bathroom. Inside, he could hear the muffled exchange between his mother and sister.

Staring at his mirror image, he realised just why his mother had been so adamant about him leaving his leaden cage slash bedroom. The dark circles underneath his eyes covered at least three quarters of his face, he was certain of it.

If there was such a thing as natural beauty, Steven pondered, he did not possess it, and unfortunately, no amount of product could turn him into an _unnatural_ beauty. Besides clown's make-up, perhaps.

Steven sighed, suddenly tired of his own self-pity. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to swallow down his growing anxiety. The prospect of being stuck in a building full of people drowned him in a sense of dread. And then there was that ugly, horrifying hope of meeting someone special. Disappointment was inevitable, yes, but he _could_ limit the emotional damage by draining himself of any expectations.

Which, obviously, sounded nice in theory.

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later, Steven emerged, surrounded by a cloud of steam and hairspray, his hair now firmly in place and neck adorned by a glass bead necklace.

'Why does everything you do have to be a bit too much?' his sister remarked sharply, adding the finishing touches to her make-up.

'Because I _am_ a bit too much.' he said in passing as he grabbed his coat and rushed down the stairs to the front door. Betty was already expecting him and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.  
'Take care of yourself, honey. And don't come home too late. Remember to call, if something happens.'  
'Careful, mother, if you coddle me a bit less, the neighbours might just think I am an adult.'  
'Well, are you?' she called after him as he jogged to the bus stop. A few minutes were left until the bus would arrive.

The clacking of her heels made Jackie's presence known. She coughed, prompting him to turn his head. Once she had gotten his attention, she seemed uncertain as to what to do with it. She cleared her throat, again, and pronounced the next words with care.

'Steven. Don't talk to me or my friends, okay?'  
Steven raised one eyebrow.

Jackie gripped the lapel of his coat, a pleading expression on her face. 'I'm serious. Tonight is important. James is going to be there, and, you know…' she drifted off. She searched his face, eyes wide. Her make-up was impeccable, he observed, blue eyeshadow expertly applied to make her eyes pop. Pink lips like candy and sweetly red cheeks and Steven realised: tonight _was_ important.

He nodded.

'I'll leave you alone.'

She breathed out and let go of his coat somewhat awkwardly. Jackie punched him lightly, as if to make clear that any weakness revealed a moment ago had been a singular event. Again, Steven nodded. He understood.

'Well, the deal goes both ways. I'll leave you and your girlfriend alone, too.'  
Steven huffed out a laugh and they shared a comfortable silence until the bus arrived. While Jackie jumped, Steven dragged his legs inside. _Anticipation turns some people into beasts and others into mice_.

 

* * *

 

The bus ride to the venue was over in a blink. By the time they had arrived, any remainder of sunlight was gone and a cool evening breeze crept through every single layer of his clothes, announcing that autumn was reaching its end.

In front of the venue youths of all shapes and sizes were assembled, those who deemed themselves exceptionally cool trying to hide their excitement behind a cloud of smoke and a leather jacket, and others, more earnest in their agitation, were already forming a queue. Jackie joined the former, and Steven the latter, walking to the end of the line, ticket so delicately held between his index finger and thumb he might as well been holding a living being. The tension radiating from the people around him was beginning to turn his anxiety into full fledged excitement. Laughter, prattling, the smell of cigarettes and beer was filling the air. Slowly but surely, the line crawled closer to the entrance and with each step the noise grew and before he even had a chance to properly show the helplessly overwhelmed bouncers his ticket, a bulk of hot, sweaty bodies had pressed him through the door into the venue.  
His eyes needed a moment to adjust to the sudden absence of light, but already he could hear the deep rumble of Patti Smith's voice and the crowd swaying to the beat of the music.

Steven made his way to the front, squeezing past person after person, faces glistening with sweat and eyes firmly fixed on the female figure with the wild, brown mane. He only stopped once he was a few feet away from the stage. By now, every clear thought had left his head apart from an indistinct desire, a _want_ that was only reinforced by the sight of Patti Smith's lips shaping words and her throat pressing out sound; her feelings and thoughts pronounced for all to witness and judge. The raw emotions Steven experienced in that moment hit him straight in the chest, admiration, envy, euphoria – all intermingling, none able to win out over the other. It left him in a stupor, caught between the urge to move or to deflate completely. Song after song passed, and, for all he knew, a single moment could have lasted for all of eternity. Patti stretched her throat, her shoulders straining and her hips shaking, grumbling, piano notes were thrown about wildly, guitar strings bent, the bass was thumping and the drums were kicking.

His glasses continued to slide down the sweaty bridge of his nose, forcing him to awkwardly hold them in place with his left hand; but, in a moment of inattention, they weaselled their way downwards and fell to the floor. Steven promptly reached down, much to the annoyance of the people around him. He felt his way around the floor, until finally he reemerged. As he put his glasses back on, no worse for wear apart from a few scratches, he noticed a familiar face.  
An unsettling heat settled low in his stomach, and there was more than just the beat of the music at work. His eyes drifted somewhat unfocused as he observed him. Just as everyone else in the crowd, his face glistened with sweat, the beat of the music trembling within his body. But, _but, his_ expression was out of this world, Steven found. His mouth hanging open, eyelids heavy, his face stuck somewhere between a seriousness fitting a funeral and a childlike fascination. Adoration. An expression perfectly fitting his own.  
His eyes flashed to his, and Steven breathed out.

Slowly, lazily, Johnny’s mouth formed a sly grin.

His eyes flitted across Steven’s face lightly and then returned to the stage. At some point Steven had let go of the ticket between his fingers, ink now smeared across the damp inside of his right palm.

* * *

 

 

Steven mingled around the bar after the gig had finished. Sitting in front of a luke-warm bottle of coke he took in his surroundings. He enjoyed the simultaneous feeling of anonymity and involvement as he listened to the chatter, silently laughing with and at the people around him. He was stalling, a fact Steven was perfectly aware of. He knew he was supposed to be pushing through the crowd, fighting gloriously to find his darling, but, alas, Steven was never one to play Prince Charming. So, instead, he waited and let fate take its course, strangely assured that it would. A cough ripped him from his reverie.  
‘Well, look who we got here. The time abroad has done wonders for your complexion, darling.’  
‘Security, notoriously aggressive Linder Sterling has broken her restraining order.’ Steven drawled and took a big gulp from his bottle, avoiding the girl’s eyes. The addressed huffed and leaned against the bar next to him. ‘Where were you? I was freezing my arse off out there waiting for you. You never called back, I even wrote you a bloody letter. What the hell was going on the past week, Steven? ’ Steven let the wave of accusations crash over him, remaining strangely apathetic.  
‘Bad, bad week, Linder. There’s not much else to say.’ Linder hummed and side-eyed him.  
‘Bad enough for you to almost miss out on a Patti Smith concert?’

‘I suppose so.’

Linder regarded him quietly. ‘Well, then it’s also bad enough for you to drink something other than water, juice or coke. C’mon, it’s on me.’

‘I’ll have a glass of milk, then.’ Linder laughed and ordered a beer for each of them. ‘Let’s get out of here, I want to talk to a bunch of people.’

Thus he found himself standing outside the venue, the beer in his hand barely touched, his posture rigid. He was quite fascinated by the crowd Linder surrounded herself with. All of Manchester’s artistic elite seemed to be drawn to her. Linder was his lifeline, sparing him the awkwardness of striking up conversations with complete strangers, having the luxury of being introduced instead. ‘Steven, this is Billy Duffy, Billy this is Steven Morrissey.’, Linder voiced, pointing at each of them.

‘So, what are you up to these days, Morrissey?’ The red haired guy to his left, Billy, asked him, to which Steven simply shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. Sleep, eat, rinse and repeat. With toilet breaks in between.’

Billy laughed. ‘You sing? Play in a band or something?’

At Steven’s silence, Billy nodded, smirking. ‘Linder here tells me that not only do you sing, but that you’re pretty good at it, too. That you write your own lyrics.’ Steven avoided his gaze.

‘I’ve been told I croon.’ he replied evasively. Billy laughed and pulled out a pack of tobacco and some paper. ‘I get it. Not interested. S’fine. My friend’s looking for a singer, that’s all.’ He began to roll himself a cigarette. ‘Do you roll ‘em yourself, Steven?’

‘Nah, he doesn’t smoke.’ Steven’s face whipped to his right, his breath caught in his throat. Johnny stood directly next to him, looking as casual as ever. Steven took a clumsy step to the left, thrown off balance by Johnny’s sudden appearance.  
‘You two already know each other?’

‘Yeah.’ Johnny said, throwing a glance in Steven’s direction, a cigarette stuck between his lips.  
‘I... have to use the loo.’ Steven stuttered, turning to make his way to the door, when a hand gripped his sleeve. ‘I’ll come with you.’ Steven opened and shut his mouth at the sight of Johnny’s hand.

‘Lead the way.’ Johnny said, gesturing for the door. Steven stumbled forward, leading them to the men’s room. All the while he was only aware of the blood rushing to his cheeks and his trembling hands. This was horrible, this was a complete and utter disaster.

The men’s room was a mess, as expected. Bodily fluids, water and paper tissues were pooling in front of the urinals. Johnny nonchalantly made his way to one, and Steven cringed at the sound of him opening his fly. He couldn’t just stand there. He couldn’t just _watch_ Johnny, for God’s sake. So he followed suit, and found himself desperately praying to be able to pee with Johnny in such close proximity. Steven couldn’t suppress the strangled laugh that escaped his mouth at the thought, and Johnny gave him a questioning sideways glance. Steven simply shook his head in reply, still huffing out nervous laughs. ‘Now I’m curious, what’s so funny?’ Steven took a deep breath and wrecked his brain for a legitimate reason. ‘Well, us.’  
‘What d’you mean?’ Steven tried to think of something, anything, and all the while he noticed how long their peeing session was taking them because they had both drunk too much, in his case coke, and in Johnny’s probably beer, and God, what was even happening. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange how men just go to public bathrooms and take out their… well, genitalia in front of each other?’ Steven rushed out, while mentally chastising himself for saying something that stupid and obvious and filled to the brim with innuendos.  
Johnny, however, didn’t seem to mind at all and replied ‘Yeah. All the straightest guys in the world collectively pulling out their dicks. As long as you only sneak a peak for a second or so it’s not gay, though.’ Steven stared at Johnny’s profile, wide-eyed, and then he couldn’t help the smile from spreading across his face. ‘That is, well, quite accurate, I suppose.’

Johnny finished up, grinning, and then went to the sink to wash his hands. Steven turned his head carefully and shyly admired Johnny’s slight, almost fragile frame from behind. ‘I’m heading back. See you in a minute.’ Johnny said, and threw another glance at Steven before leaving. Once the door had fallen shut, Steven breathed out slowly. Thoughtfully, he washed his hands (there was obviously no soap left, much to his disgust) and analysed their conversation. ‘All the straightest guys’… well, that phrase left a lot of room for interpretation. Was he talking about straight guys, excluding himself? Steven’s head was spinning. He rubbed his eyes and yearned for nothing more but his bed, his books and his records.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. You should definitely check out 'Gloria' and 'Horses' by Patti Smith. Great tracks, great artist. Hope you enjoyed this chapter, do share your thoughts.   
> OH, AND WHAT'S THAT IN STEVEN'S DRAWER?

**Author's Note:**

> Whelp.


End file.
